THR Volume 2 : The Hero's Requiem
by RosieMac
Summary: After the events of "The Hero's Return" John Connor has one last matter to deal with regarding his mother Sarah, before starting his new life with Cameron.


**THR VOLUME 2: THE HERO'S REQUIEM**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters, I am merely borrowing them._

* * *

There's an old song, that goes something like: _'It Never Rains In Southern California.'_ Some songs reach out to you in ways you don't expect: they give meaning to your life, or a particular aspect of it; they move you emotionally, or just make you move on a dance floor. To me, music is just there. As a kid I listened to angry, loud rock music because it seemed to speak to my inner turmoil. Also it temporarily covered up and blocked out the reality of my existence, one that I couldn't change. I could not outrun my destiny, no matter how hard I tried. Then one day destiny took another turn, took the form of a beautiful girl. From then on I was put on another path, which has led me to here, the place where the anonymous, the unwanted and the unloved are laid to rest: L.A. County Municipal Cemetery.

It's 5:30AM and it _is_ raining in Southern California, and raining hard; I want to kill the goddamn bastard who wrote that song. I want to allow Skynet to rain hellfire and damnation upon this city for ruining this day, but I think we have put an end to Skynet, so my curses will have to do.

"It's here, John," she says, kneeling down by a simple rectangular marker. She is oblivious to the wet seeping through her denim jeans; she will not care that she has unsightly damp patches for all to see. That's not to say she does not possess some vanity, for she does like to primp and preen herself; perhaps it is all for my benefit? Perhaps not. The torrents of water plaster her hair to her head, mocking the time she spent teasing it into place. I know she normally dislikes getting wet, but today she makes no complaint. Today is my day.

I look to where she points. The marker merely displays a year, below that a serial number in much smaller script. "You're sure?" I ask, though I know what her answer will be.

"This is where your mother came after I gave her my findings. She told me that she was unable to trace your father's marker at the time of his death, before she fled south. However, I was able to discover that there had been only one person left unidentified in a space of four days surrounding his death, therefore making this one his, and his alone. Derek is buried here too, but his is one out of six markers. I have not been able to narrow it down further. I'm sorry." She looks me in the eye and I see sympathy.

"It's okay, really. What matters is my father's. She wanted to be with him for ever, but it was just such a short time they had. Now they really can be together again. I guess we're lucky you found it."

"It was not luck. Having access to me was something she lacked at the time, and she certainly would not have confided in me the name of your father, if I had not already known. But she did express her gratitude, that she could visit the site before we left Palmdale."

"Yeah, she bitched about being left out of that mission, but snuck off out here!"

"Obviously that is an inheritable trait," Cameron states flatly. As ever, I'm not sure if she is deliberately being funny, but decide now's not the time for that particular discussion.

I get out a small, brand new trowel from my back pack, and squatting down, carefully ease the grass away from the side of the marker. I remove several inches worth of soil, putting it in a K-Mart carrier bag that my wife is holding open. Then I remove a second item from my backpack, the reason for our being here at this early hour, in these wretched conditions. I open the unadorned plastic container and pour the earthly remains of my mother, Sarah Connor, into the hole I have dug. In my mind I hear the intoning of a priest from my childhood in Central America…_"Polvo fuiste y en polvo te ____convertirás..." __Ashes to ashes, dust to dust_… but my mother didn't really hold with that religious stuff. Sure seems suitable at times like this though. My last task is to replace the grass carefully. Perhaps the rain will hide the fact that it has been disturbed.

My wife offers me a baby-wipe to clean my hands with, then a dry cloth. She is well organized, thinking of everything. With all the detritus placed in my backpack, it is time to go.

I know that I should not linger, my every instinct has been and probably always will be to keep moving, but I wish there was something more. There should be kilted pipers playing _Flowers of the Forest_ as they do for cops, firemen and soldiers. There should be uniformed men snapping off a volley in salute. There should be someone important to solemnly hand over a carefully-folded Old Glory. Sarah Connor was a warrior equal to those who are commemorated in songs, books and poems; by statue or painting, road or building; but she won't be remembered for her courage and bravery, her decency and spirit, her determination and love; leastways by the public at large. Those whose lives that she touched though, they will remember her, honor her, revere her. Some will love her. Her greatest wish was that all she did for me would be in vain, because Judgment Day was prevented absolutely, finally and completely. On this wet and miserable day in Southern California, I fervently believe that to be true. I pray it is true, and I'm not a religious man.

I'm John Connor, and I think I just saved the world. Now I have to get the hell out of here, in case I get caught by the cops. They don't know I'm alive, and I prefer to keep it that way. In fact, today is the last day I will be John Connor. From now on my wife and myself will have to be completely different people. She has the papers all ready for our new life. Like I said, she's well organized. I am about to go, when she speaks.

"That's interesting."

"What is?" I inquire.

"These small additional numbers engraved on your father's marker: they are also the co-ordinates of a location in the Mojave desert," she replies.

"Coincidence?" I ask doubtfully.

"When it came to your mother, there was no such thing," she states.

"Agreed. Check it out?"

"Yes."

So we do, heading for our Jeep that has served us well. Cameron seems to like it; she hasn't suggested that we change it as we have done in the past. Switching license plates she deems to be sufficient disguise. Despite the weather, she lets me drive.

* * *

The desert escapes the rain, giving us opposite weather extremes in one day. Heat is fine though. So is rain, at the right time. Sun and rain allow plants to grow, giving sustenance to humans and animals alike. In the future we had to improvise, so I banish petty complaints from my mind. Before civilization gives way completely to nature, we stop at a retail park to get some supplies from a hardware store, and some extra bottled water. _"Just in case,"_ as Cameron puts it.

* * *

At the given co-ordinates we find a small building, more of a shack really. But under it is a well-hidden, tiny bunker with about enough space for one man to lie in. Thoughts of our morning activities make me rate it as coffin-sized. It was likely dug by my mother, and perhaps me, though I have no recollection of this specific one. There are some carefully-wrapped automatic rifles and handguns, with suitable ammunition; and a small, worn brown leather vanity case. In it I find an old-school portable cassette player, and a bunch of TDK-branded tapes, each individually numbered in my mother's hand. In the case there is also a picture of Mom, seated in an ancient red Jeep with a German Shepherd dog beside her. The expression on her face is one I know well: determination.

There is nothing else in there, nothing left for her to pass on to me. I have had a lifetime of her training, a lifetime of her love; now I must see what else she has to teach me. Knowing her, there will be much, much more. I guess she would expect me to never stop trying to learn, never stop fighting. Maybe the day has come when I can prove her wrong, that our enemy is vanquished. Somehow though, I doubt my wife will let me forget what I have been born and raised for.

Cameron is examining one of the cassettes. "We will need batteries for this to work. There is no AC power lead with the playing mechanism."

I note that she doesn't call it a machine: a sore point? I don't mention it either, partly because it's a difficult area for me too, and also I don't want to interrupt her while she is still talking.

"The compact cassette was introduced in 1963 by its inventor, Royal Philips Electronics of Eindhoven in the Netherlands, soon displacing reel-to-reel and later eight-track recorders," she recites, as only she can.

"Yes, thank you Professor Phill–" I stop, and not because she isn't going by the Phillips name these days. "Philips. _Phillips_." I say her name as if for the first time. Actually, it could well be. When we said our wedding vows last week, I didn't take _Cameron Phillips_ to be my lawfully-wedded wife, but–

"Yes?" she says, interrupting my train of thought.

"Oh, sorry Cameron, I didn't mean you. Or I did. I just realized something." She tilts her head and frowns in puzzlement. "I gave you your original name, didn't I?"

"No."

"No? But you told me Future-Me named you..." Now I'm puzzled.

"Future-John named me _Cameron Phillips_, not you, not Future-You. You won't be that man. You'll be you."

She smiles as she finishes her convoluted explanation, but I know she is not making fun of me, she is just pleased that I won't be the lonely and remote, almost mythical figure who, desperate to win a long, long war, threw everything he had in one roll of the dice: he sent her back to me.

"Okay, point taken: the miserable old bastard that I won't become, he named you after the cassettes that Mom recorded all this stuff on. It must be important, if he gave you a name that links you to her."

"Yes, it must," she acknowledges, still smiling that little smile. "Although it is spelled differently: my name has a double '_L_.' But I have been confused before about the correct spelling of names with that letter in."

I move closer to her, inhale her scent, see the life in those eyes. She looks up at me, expectantly. I have another question for her.

"So, where did he get _Cameron_ from then?"

She looks disappointed. "I have no idea. I thought you might have worked it out, Sherlock."

Momentarily stunned by her reply, I quickly recover, then smirk at her.

"You have been spending _way_ too much time with my mother..."

She raises an eyebrow, as Mom was wont to do. "I'll take that as a compliment," she says, then takes my hand and leads me away, as she does when she is being protective, out towards our waiting Grand Cherokee, guiding me to the passenger door. Cameron has clearly decided to drive the car, which despite it being nearly evening, is now simmering in the unrelenting sunshine. After I get in, she turns back to secure the entrance to the bunker and lock the door to the shack, both with new padlocks. I start to sweat in the heated oven that is our Jeep, even though my door is open, because there is no breeze to cool me down. The shack should have been like a furnace too, but it was noticeably cooler than where I am now; clever design no doubt. To survive in these parts requires cunning and endurance, alongside shelter and water. Much like the future I jumped to, for the purpose of finding the cybernetic organism I now call my wife.

While she is busy with her duties, I remove the tape, that has been labeled _Number One_ in Mom's scrawly handwriting, from its box and place it in the car's cassette deck. I hesitate before turning the power switch on, as Cameron joins me in the car.

"You miss her," she says.

"Yeah. Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Really?"

"She was an interesting woman. I learned a lot from her."

"That's good."

"We had talked a lot, since you and I returned from the future."

"Yeah, I noticed! So, what did you talk about?"

"You. Me. Us. Anything and everything. But mainly about us." She places the key in the slot by the steering wheel. "Time to go." I nod in agreement.

My mother's voice fills the silence before the starter motor turns the engine over and the ignition sparks the gas. With clarity and authority her words rise above the rumble of the Jeep's engine, though that seems a fitting accompaniment.

"_John. My son, my only child; my reason for being, my pride and joy. If you are listening to this you will know that I am gone. I hope I have prepared you well for what awaits you, but if not these tapes contain the sum total of my knowledge of what lies ahead, of what I went through to get this far. I trust it is useful._

_ "No matter what you learn, what you achieve, always remember you are a man, a human. Find time to love; to enjoy and embrace your humanity. Don't become like them, the machines: soulless and remote from all that is good._

_ "I wonder if I should tell–"_

I switch off the tape, unable to listen further. I notice that the car is not moving, the engine is not running, as a gentle hand wipes a tear from my cheek. I try to pull my emotions back in, reluctant to appear weak.

"You have not yet grieved for her. She was right, you should not be like a machine," Cameron whispers, pulling me down to rest my head on her lap.

I weep in a way I haven't done for many years, ridding myself of all the pent-up emotions gathered through losses experienced in a future that may not now come to pass; through the loss of the light that guided me all my days, even when I was away from her, in that future-hell. As my tears flow, soaking her jeans again, Cameron strokes my head and back, reassuring me. I hope this will be the last time that I cry like this, like a child, but I am glad that I have someone who doesn't judge me for it.

Eventually I gather myself together and we smile at each other. Nothing further needs saying. Cameron restarts the car and I eject the tape from the cassette deck. The RDS radio self-tunes to an 'Oldies' station, much like the one in Mexico that we thought Mom would like. A song comes on, but I don't know it. I expect my wife to re-tune the radio, but perhaps her days of experimenting with pop and dance music are over: she inclines her head a bit and a smile of recognition forms momentarily on her lips. I must have a puzzled look on my face, because she broadens her smile and tells me it was one of Mom's favorites. How the hell does she know that, when I don't?

"In 2004, _Rolling Stone_ magazine voted it the 284th best song of all time. Everyone knows that, surely?" she says in a deadpan way, but I can see her smirk fighting to get out.

"Since when did you become a smart-ass?" I ask.

"Since I let you cut your hair yourself. Your mother was right about that, you didn't make a good job of it. Next time, I'll do it," she says.

I realize after a while that I am gawping open-mouthed at her, and hastily shut my mouth just in time for her to roar off with such speed that I am jerked back in my seat. For this I jumped forwards in time to a freaking nightmare of a war with no guarantee of return? _Hell, yeah!_

Today is the first day of the rest of our lives. I was John Connor and I think I just saved the world. Now I'm done fighting, but I still have to find a new future for myself and my wife, one day at a time, same as any other ordinary guy.

* * *

_**EPILOGUE**_

_Once we had settled into a new town complete with fresh identities, one quiet evening John again asked me about the many conversations I had had with Sarah Connor, and about what I had heard at his dying mother's bedside._

_I was sitting cross-legged on our bed, with John in front of me, facing forward. The room was fairly dark, with only a small amount of light penetrating through the window blinds, but that was for John's benefit: I of course had no difficulty in seeing everything. I repeated for him Sarah's story, something he had not yet heard in its entirety. Obviously he was present for some of the events described, but this was from a completely different perspective. Eventually I reached the sad conclusion to the tale. John turned to me, beginning to verbalize his thoughts. He had a puzzled look upon his face, so I expected a question._

"_Did she really say 'going at it like rabbits?' It doesn't seem, well... sorta like Mom, you know?"_

_I identified that as two queries, but opted to answer the first, then reply to his second with a question of my own. "Yes, she did. Why, do you think I would lie about it?"_

"_We-ell, you did once say you lied to me about big things."_

"_It's not a big thing."_

"_Now you're deflating my ego."_

_I am not sure exactly what he meant by that. It could have been innuendo, but that is something I still haven't come to grips with, so I offered what I assumed was an appropriate spousal response: "Shall I kiss it better?"_

"_Er, let's not go there," he ordered, though contrary to his tone, he had a grin on his face._

"_Was something I said amusing?" I inquired._

"_Er, sorta," my husband replied, still grinning. Or was it a smirk?_

"_Humor is good for relieving the pain of grief," I stated, quoting a textbook I read once._

"_Yeah well, your sense of humor needs work," he said in a sharp tone. I looked down. "But I appreciate the thought, really," John said, lifting my chin. I smiled at him, to show that I valued his touch._

"_So, it looks like you are the repository for the Connor memories. Maybe next time, don't use Mom's voice, okay?" he said._

"_I thought that it made it more authentic," I said, but this caused him to wince. I recalled then that I had used that phrase before, when I told him that I loved him, but using Riley Dawson's voice. That was a mistake, and not explaining myself properly at the time compounded the error. I did not make the same mistake this time. "You could have said something earlier; I would not wish to hurt you. You know how I feel about that, how I feel about you," I added, but didn't repeat the exact words I used back then._

_His hand moved slowly from my chin up the left side of my face to my ear, to the spot behind it that I am unable to isolate from my sensitivity field. I wanted to remove his fingers from it, yet at the same time I didn't. The dichotomy of a cybernetic organism in love with a human being? Oh well, at least he is my human being, my husband. My John Connor. I responded to his lips upon mine._

**THE END**

_(of VOLUME 2, but the story continues in VOLUME 3: BETTER DAYS)_

* * *

_**Author's Notes**_

_If you're interested, Rolling Stone magazine's 284th best song of all time is: "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding?" by Elvis Costello & The Attractions._

_Thanks again to my hard-working beta-reader Munter. Also to Toasty2 for the Spanish translation; sorry I didn't use more, but it seemed appropriate there._

_Thank you for reading this; please leave a comment, then leave in an orderly fashion._


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